How Your Pants Should Fit Now |
There's never been a better time to be a pants-wearing human being. From a sheer selection standpoint, the current era is without rival. Whatever you're pulling on, a cornucopia of fits and finishes awaits you. Options truly abound. But abundance is a double-edged sword. The other day, I was talking to the head of men's fashion at a major American department store, and he let me in on a secret: Men aren't buying pants. They buy knits and jackets and sneakers—but nothing for their legs. The reason, I suppose, is that the volume of choices can leave some folks feeling confused. Paralyzed, even. Call it the tyranny of choice. You'd have to be some kind of borderline-obsessive pants enthusiast to come close to exploring all the stuff on the market. Luckily for you, the Esquire office is full of borderline-obsessive pants enthusiasts. |
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Brooks & Dunn's Next Act Is the Stuff of Legend |
"After all the nonsense, and the thousands of dollars' worth of confetti and balloons and steer heads with mirrors all over them, and all the crazy shit we did, nobody's talking about any of that now," says Kix Brooks. "They're all talking about our music." It's something like vindication for the power-country duo Brooks & Dunn—and a feeling that quiets a superstar's long-held fear. "We wrote all these songs, we made all these records, and we're really proud of the music," he says, "but were they just going to remember us clowning around?" |
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What's Wrong with My Wine? |
You know the scenario. It's a buzzing weekday evening and you've managed to snag a table in one of your favorite restaurants to meet a couple of your best-loved humans. Coats are checked, hugs are exchanged, and you order a bottle of what you assume will be a delicious vino. The sommelier arrives tableside with said bottle and acknowledges your discerning judgment with a knowing smile. The bottle is opened, a small taste is poured. You raise the glass to your nose–no pressure!–and inhale. Then your olfactory system tingles with the spellbinding aromas of … a flooded basement. WTF? Isn't Chablis supposed to smell like lemon curds and salty sea air? Not today, pal. You try to stay cool. You don't want to offend the sommelier or seem pompous to your friends. Still, try as you might, you just can't conceal your concern, because this wine is costing $100—and it's corked. But how can you be sure, and what should you say? Look, if an Englishman like me who'd rather cut off his own head than cause a scene in a restaurant can send a faulty wine back, so can you. Here's what you need to know. |
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Say Nothing Is Excellent, Downright Exhilarating TV |
Like most American millennials, I didn't learn much about the Irish Troubles in school. When I asked my parents what the Cranberries were singing about in "Zombie," they didn't know, either. But a few months before the pandemic, I picked up a nonfiction book by Patrick Radden Keefe called Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland. I was drawn to the title but also to the photo on the cover of a short-haired woman whose face is hidden from the nose down. Four hundred pages later, Keefe is re-reading an interview transcript with the same woman when he writes, "Twelve pages into the document, I encountered something that I had somehow missed before, and I sat bolt upright." The five final pages of Keefe's book after that sentence are among the most memorable reading experiences of my life. Now FX has turned the true story of Say Nothing into one of the best TV series of 2024—a stunning blend of Derry Girls and Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy that nails the tone, pacing, and suspense of Keefe's masterpiece. |
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Inside the Tragic Life and Controversial Execution of Marcellus Williams |
The cell at Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center, where Missouri executes those the state finds guilty of capital offenses, had a phone. They'd brought Marcellus Williams there September 23, the day before he was scheduled to die. His son called that afternoon. Marcellus Jr., thirty-four, has a son of his own, a three-year-old who is on the autism spectrum. "Maybe you can get some proceeds from me getting executed," Williams told Marcellus Jr., "and you can use them to put your son in a better school, work on his therapy." That's the way he was, say those closest to him. The fifty-four-year-old devout Muslim with a shaved head and salt-and-pepper beard was always thinking of others, wanting what was best for them—even after he was gone. But he wasn't gone. Yet. There was still a chance. He'd petitioned the state supreme court. The U. S. Supreme Court. The governor. He might get one more reprieve. |
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Twenty-seven degrees in a Port-A-Jon, the seat freezing my ass. I'm in the dark with a little flashlight. Chemically treated feces and urine splash up onto my anus. The wind howls, shaking the plastic structure. My hands go numb. 3:00 a.m., parked in a public lot across the street from the town beach in Westerly, Rhode Island. Just woke up, sleep evasive. It's my first week out here. I pour an iced coffee from my cooler. I'm walking around the front of the Toyota I'm now living in when a car pulls into the lot, comes toward me. I see only headlights illuminating my fatigue and the red plastic party cup in my hand. Must be a cop. Someone gets out and approaches. It is a cop, young. I'm not afraid, exactly, but I'm also not yet used to being homeless. |
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